


Echoed in the Eyes

by Long_Time_QT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Case Fic, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Friends to Lovers, Gender or Sex Swap, Human John, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Murder, Symbolism, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Long_Time_QT/pseuds/Long_Time_QT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson work on a rather peculiar case. Vampires, all from different backgrounds, suddenly go rogue and kill as many humans as they can before they too drop dead. As the case grows more complex, so does the relationship between these two women. The question is, will the case find resolve before they do, or will it consume them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case Begins

**Author's Note:**

> If enough people request it I will release an identical version with the original pronouns, but for now I'm digging this

The middle-aged woman with the short brown hair and dark purple lipstick stared at Joan from the other side of the Plexiglas barrier. The look in her eyes was skeptical to say the least, outright suspicious to say the most. Joan shuffled her feet under the weight of her gaze. Finally the woman huffed with reluctance and pulled the familiar papers from one of her drawers. She slid them across the mint green countertop and under the divide.

“Fill these out and move to the back of the queue.”

 _Of course,_ Joan sighed mild frustration.

“Right, sorry. I just don’t see why I need to fill this out if my information is already in the system. You served me last week and the one before that!”

The woman narrowed her steel gaze. “It’s policy. If you don’t want to fill out the form, then tell your ‘friend’ to come in herself. Now to the back with you, or I’ll bar you from service.”

Joan relented with a sharp exhale and took the form, as well as one of the cheap plastic pens from the maroon basket on the right side of the counter. As she walked to the back of the queue she mentally cursed whatever bureaucrat made it so bloody difficult for humans to buy a bottle of synthetic Type A for their lazy vampire flatmate. Well, no actually. Joan could see why the purchase of blood was so heavily regulated, what with all the nutters out there. Who she _should_ curse was her lazy vampire flatmate.

This was the fourth time in as many weeks that Sherlock badgered Joan into heading down to the Depot to buy a liter or two on her errands. It didn’t seem to matter that all Sherlock had to do was flash her Vampiric Validation Stamp and she could get as much as she could afford, no questions asked. Joan on the other hand, had to practically write her entire life story to get so much as a pint.

Next week she’d let Sherlock starve. It would serve her right.

 

Joan stepped through the door of 221b with a plastic bag from Tesco’s in one hand and a thermal bag from the Depot in the other to find Sherlock exactly as she’d left her an hour and a half earlier— lying on her back under the coffee table, feet sticking out the end and unplugged headphones over her ears. Her eyes were closed and her long, unruly locks tied loosely back and splayed across the carpet. In this light, she could pass for dead.

“I don’t know if anyone told you,” Joan said loudly as she kicked the door closed, “but vampires don’t actually need to sleep in coffin-like conditions.”

Sherlock sighed heavily through her nose at the interruption, but did remove the headphones to speak.

“I’m trying to commit new data from an article from the _Journal of Forensic Science_ to memory. Too much external stimuli was interfering with my processes and without a sensory depravation chamber on hand, this is my best option.” She slid the uppermost part of her body out from under the table to meet Joan’s blue eyes with her iridescent ones.

“Problem?”

“Right,” Joan said, shaking her head as she made for the kitchen, “well if you’re done with your filing, I could use some help putting things away.”

She placed the bags on the table and began sorting through everything. It took a few moments for Sherlock to pad in after her. She made a beeline for the Depot bag.

“This is A-Neg,” she frowned as she pulled the bottle from its chilly prison, “I asked you to get positive.”

“Well then maybe next time you could go down to make sure I get it right,” Joan said without looking up from her sorting, “or better yet, go down and get some yourself.” She didn’t need to see the eye roll to know it happened.

“Please, you were running errands anyway. It would have been inefficient for us both to go out separately for the same menial tasks.”

“Right,” Joan placed a carton of milk in the fridge, “because hiding out under a coffee table is a _much_ better use of time.”

“I’m glad you see my point,” Sherlock said with a smarmy grin. “Any marches today?”

Sherlock put the bottle away in the bottom crisper in the fridge. From the way she closed the door and leaned against the counter, Joan supposed it would be the only thing she’d help with.

“Not that I saw,” Joan shook her head and placed a can of beans in the cupboard, “I think there was one going by the Depot in Chiswick. Didn’t go out of my way to see it.”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, “well the Depot closest to the latest murder would be the most obvious place to start lobbying. Although, I don’t think those humanitarian groups are capable of subtlety.” The edge in Sherlock’s voice would have made most men’s skin crawl. Joan however, only nodded in acknowledgment.

“Yea, well. Idiots trying to send a message don’t typically go the subtle route. Louder the better and all that.”

Sherlock hummed and Joan stopped her busywork to face her properly.

“You really think they’re murders?”

“Of course,” Sherlock pushed herself off the counter, “what else would they be?”

“Well, couldn’t it be some kind of cult suicide gone wrong? Three different vampires from different backgrounds suddenly going on a violent rampage only to die within the hour can’t be just coincidence. Not with all the attacks occurring within a fortnight.”

“Well you got one right,” Sherlock conceded, “It wasn’t coincidence. Someone drugged those vampires with the singular goal of mass devastation, and was determined to take as many humans down with them. Why else would the culprit induce unquenchable thirst? Why curse with the need to over consume until death? We just need to find out what substance they’ve been given to make them slaves to chemically induced bloodlust.”

Joan felt a shiver threatening to crawl up her spine. She suppressed it.

“Have you talked to Lestrade?”

“No,” Sherlock pouted and Joan sensed the beginnings of a sulk in action, “I think he’s still upset about the incident on our last case.”

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to apologize for it.”

“I don’t apologize for things that aren’t my fault," Sherlock said in a voice that confirmed a sulk was underway, "I was merely informing Anderson of an error he’d made in cataloguing evidence when he started arguing with me.”

“You were telling him how to do his job! Of course he’s going to argue.”

“What, should I have let him mishandle evidence?”

“No, but you could have refrained from calling him, what was it? It was something, er, a neurological throwback to the australopithecines?”

Sherlock sniffed, shrugging her shoulders, “It’s not my fault his mental capacity is more suited to apish grooming than forensic science. In my day we’d have shot the man for having so little control over his mental processes.”

Joan snorted, “I’m almost certain you wouldn’t.”

“Okay fine, imprisonment then.”

“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Sherlock crossed her arms with an air of petulance. “Victorians already had a stupid punishments for stupid reasons. Might as well have one for the stupid. Of course, then nearly all of England would have suffered.”

Sherlock’s phone chirped from the sitting room and the woman all but dashed toward it. Joan finished up organizing their fridge when Sherlock rushed back into the kitchen beaming.

“Get your coat. There’s been another attack.”

“When?” Joan followed the detective out of the room and grabbed her jacket.

“Last night,” Sherlock said as they dashed down and out the door to hail a cab, “a human-vampire couple was out for a walk when it happened. The human girlfriend and a passerby were slaughtered. We’re headed to the Royal Marsden A&E.” A few waves and a cab pulled up just as Sherlock finished her sentence.

“Wait, what?” Joan shot Sherlock a look, “Why the hospital?”

Sherlock opened the door and grinned. “The vampire’s still alive.”


	2. Interviewing A Suspect

They rolled to a stop outside the hospital where Sally stood waiting for them in the shade of the doorway, sporting white gloves and an olive green umbrella, which complemented her pale blue blouse. Sherlock rolled her eyes and sent a tight smile Sally’s way.

“Sally,” she said tersely.

“Freak,” Sally replied in turn and collapsed the umbrella so that it hung innocuously from her wrist. She gestured for them to follow and led them into the hospital.

The sea of people seemed to part at their approach. Be it due to the notorious reputation of Sherlock Holmes, the powerful strides exuded by one Sally Donovan, or some sort of collaborative Femme-Fatale-Charlie’s-Angels thing was anyone’s guess. Though in Joan's opinion, she thought it had more to do with the public’s increasing uneasiness with the vampire population, given the content of the news lately, and they were a group of not one but two vampires. Unsurprisingly, she caught other human visitors giving her suspicious or otherwise hostile looks. Lovely.

“Suspect’s been moved to a private room for the time being and recovering from the sedative used to bring her in,” Sally said mostly to Sherlock. “She’s a bit out of it and seems to be really broken up about what happened, so at least try for some consideration. If you’re capable, I mean.”

“I’ll try what I will for results,” Sherlock said with the very essence of nonchalance, “and I’d be most appreciative if you kept remarks of my methods to yourself, as hard as it may be for you to corral some impulse control. By the way, how is Anderson?”

Sally hummed, coming to a halt in front of elevator doors and pressing the button. “Right, you’d be the expert on verbal restraint. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, alright,” Joan interrupted, “could we please try for some kind of civility? People are already staring.”

There was a tone and the doors opened, and soon they were crowded inside with two other doctors and a family of two young boys and a crying mother. The last thing anyone there needed was pointless bickering, especially not when the bickering was between two supposed professionals.

“Colleague’s right,” Sally said, pressing the button for their floor and smiling through narrowed eyes up at Sherlock, “try for some civility.” Sherlock glared in derision and the doors closed.

As soon as the doors reopened Sally led them down the hall towards the suspect’s room. It was less busy, with the only people around being a few nurses and a doctor sheer and there. When they stopped outside the room, Sally turned round to Joan looking a tad… concerned.

“You best wait out here. She hasn’t been around humans since the attack, and with good reason. We don’t know how she’ll react.”

“Is she restrained?” Sherlock asked, a hand on the doorknob.

“Of course, I made sure of it myself. But—“

“Then we’ve faced worse dangers. You coming, Joan?” Sherlock asked with a wry smile.

Joan didn’t need to be asked twice.

 

Kate Halstead lay trembling in her bed, right hand cuffed to the rail. Her breaths were ragged and heavy while tears and smeared mascara marked thick trails down her face. When Joan and Sherlock entered the room, her bloodshot green eyes darted up. Odd, Joan never knew a vampire to have blood-shot eyes. Or irises that trembled for that matter.

“Miss Halstead,” Sherlock said, clasping her hands behind her back, “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Dr Watson. We’re here to ask you about your horrifically violent murder of Eileen Pulver and Justin Roderick.”

Joan nudged the detective’s arm with her elbow and chastised, “ _Sherlock_.”

Clearly consideration was too much to expect from the woman’s nature. Hard to imagine what she’d be like if she was a man. Joan spared Kate a glance and noted her shock, which soon bled into absolute heartache.

“No, it’s fine. I—“ Kate took a deep breath and shook her head, “God, no, not fine. They keep telling me but… it can’t be. I loved Eileen. I couldn’t… I just couldn’t.” She wiped away her tears to no avail, hiccupping as she fought for composure.

“Miss Halstead,” Sherlock’s voice dipped into a lower, smooth, soothing tone as she stepped closer, “I hardly think you’re responsible for your actions, I just had to be sure your grief was genuine. Now!” She clapped her hands as Kate looked at her as though questioning what kind of sick joke the woman before her was trying to play, “Tell me everything you remember from last night. Even the slightest details are important if we want to find the true culprit.”

Kate seemed unsure, but nodded her assent. She took a deep, calming breath, eyes locking on Joan for an instant; just long enough to send chills down Joan’s spine. Kate shook her head and focused back on Sherlock.

“We were walking,” her voice was uneven and quivering with the threat of tears, “Nowhere in particular, just walking. She was beautiful. All rosy cheeks and warm smiles… we were alone, or at least, I thought we were. Eileen, she… she told me someone was following us. She always notices things like that. Noticed.

“I was about to turn when we were rushed. Don’t remember much after that. There was this- this smell. Something right awful.”

“Smell?” Sherlock questioned with a raise of her brow.

Kate nodded and her nose wrinkled. “Foul smelling stuff, whatever it was. Some kind of plant possibly? I’d have choked on it if I hadn’t been stabbed. At least… well, I think I’d been stabbed. Can’t be sure. Healed too quickly.” She glanced down at her lap and tears fell onto her hospital gown. Joan’s heart went out to her.

“How do you mean you were stabbed?” Joan asked in as sympathetic a tone as she could manage. She hadn’t realized she’d moved closer until Kate’s eyes darted back to her, more specifically, to her neck. Well this was awkward. Joan cleared her throat, subtly ducking her head in an attempt both to conceal herself and catch Kate’s eye again, “Miss Halstead?”

Kate’s eyes briefly flitted to Joan’s before they were back in her lap, watching her free hand tangle itself in the bed sheets.

“I…” Kate began again, “I’m almost certain it was a needle, it all happened so fast. All I know is that I was suddenly so angry after the first wave of pain. And then it was like my entire body was dying. Everywhere _hurt_ and I… and I was so thirsty.”

Her hand trembled violently, muscles coiled, and Joan didn’t need her friend’s deductive prowess to know that things were taking a turn for the ‘not good.’ It was probably time to take their leave. Sherlock seemed to be along the same train of thought.

“Well, thank you Miss Halstead,” Sherlock said as she took a casual step closer to Joan, “you’ve been very helpful. Come along, Joan.”

“NO!”

The handcuffs clanged loudly against the rail as Kate lunged forward with fangs protruding under blood red lips and a clawed hand reaching for Joan.

There was barely enough time to process the threat before Sherlock was suddenly crouched defensively in front of Joan, blocking the restrained vampire’s path and returning the feral snarl with a low growl of her own.

Joan, meanwhile, stood there with her hand half reaching for her absent gun and staring in utter fascination at the outright predatory set of Kate’s once beautiful features. The way her brows pulled together with desperate fury, the harsh lines on her nose, the deep downward curl of her lips. It all amounted into a murderous image that sent Joan’s heart into a panic.

The tense stillness of the scene stretched as the seconds ticked by. It was then Joan realized Sherlock had one hand splayed over her chest, as though Sherlock had been about to shove Joan out of the room. The contact of Sherlock’s cold fingers on Joan’s partially exposed collarbone burned. Even so, she didn’t step away and Sherlock didn’t move her hand.

Slowly, Kate’s snarl gave way to quiet mortification. She slowly lowered her arm and fell back in her bed. Her eyes had a faraway look to them, as though she were staring into the depths of what she could have done. She looked… broken. A dejected husk of a woman.

“I… I’m so sorry,” she murmured heavily, “Please. Go.”

“Right.” John cleared her throat and took a step back from both Kate and from Sherlock’s still protective hand. She nodded toward the door, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock drew herself back to her proper height and straightened out her coat. Her eyes were trained on the ground while the hand she’d used to touch Joan curled and uncurled itself.

“Right, yes,” she nodded and cleared her, “After you.”

As Joan walked out the door, her chest still felt warm and her heart raced from more than just fear.


	3. Friendly Advice

“Said it was a bad idea for you to go in,” Sally chided as she followed Joan and Sherlock down the hall. Well, more Sherlock really, as she was walking several paces ahead of both her and Joan. “I hope you’re happy you nearly got your friend killed.”

“She was hardly in any danger," Sherlock's scoff was somewhere close to condescending. "Actually, Joan’s presence there was a monumental help.”

“Really?” Joan blinked in surprise. She hadn’t felt particularly helpful, considering she’d cut their interview short.

“Of course you were,” Sherlock said, “You helped me confirm what I’d already suspected.” Even just seeing the back of her head, Joan could practically feel the self-satisfied smirk on the woman’s face.

“And what would that be?” Sally asked sceptically, “You barely talked to the woman.”

“Did you notice anything odd about Kate Halstead, Joan?” Sherlock asked, much to Sally’s very obvious frustration.

“You mean aside from being attacked?” Joan raised a brow.

“Yes, obviously. And it was barely an attack.”

Joan thought back to the encounter and forced her stubborn mind to focus on something other than the attempted assault.

“Her eyes were bloodshot,” she recalled slowly, “and she had nystagmus.”

“Nystagmus?” Sally raised a brow.

“It’s, er,” Joan began, “it’s involuntary rapid-eye movement, also known as ‘dancing eyes’. It shows up in humans for a lot of different reasons, but it almost never occurs in vampires.”

“Then how could she have it?” Sally frowned.

“She was drugged,” Sherlock said as they reached the elevator doors and pressed the button. “After all, we’re just as susceptible to the effects of drugs as humans are, even if we recover faster.”

“Wait hold on,” Sally interjected, “You keep telling us it’s drugs, but there’s no evidence for it. No marks, no anomalies in blood work. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but how do we know she’s not faking?”

“Bit difficult to fake involuntary reflexes,” Sherlock said with a tone of patronization once they’d boarded the elevator and the doors shut. “Even harder when you’re otherwise preoccupied. Her emotional state combined with Joan as a reliable distraction, Miss Halstead was at her most honest. I firmly believe that she loved Eileen, that every word she spoke was true, and that she would never have harmed the woman, or the passerby for that matter, in any way if she could help it. That said, is there anyone who can corroborate her story? Perhaps fill in the details?”

“I’m sure you can deduce that all on your own,” Sally deadpanned. “Or you could text Lestrade. I’ve had enough disrespect today.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes.

The elevator door dinged and Sally strode out into the hallway. The crowd they walked through seemed just as skittish as they had when they arrived. When the trio walked out the exit doors, Sally clicked her umbrella open with a quick press of a button and turned to Joan while Sherlock was busy texting Lestrade.

“My friend Beth hosts a book club every Thursday. If you need a hobby, you could do that. Nice, quiet, _sane_ ,” she directed a pointed glance in Sherlock’s direction. “I’m sure they have an open seat.”

“Er, no, thanks. I’m good,” Joan smiled politely, trying to quell the wave of annoyance that came any time Sally talked to her about her ‘hobbies,’ however well meaning she was. It really was hard to tell as to whether she was just trying to do what she thought was right or trying to spite Sherlock.

“Think about it,” Sally insisted. “Could do you some good.” She started walking down the street with the umbrella blocking the view of her head, “Oh, and tell your friend to get herself an umbrella!”

Sherlock groaned, spun on her heel, and started walking in the opposite direction as Sally, poised to hail a cab. Joan trailed behind.

“She’s insufferable!” Sherlock grumbled and shoved her phone back into her pocket. “Honestly, I can’t imagine the measure of idiocy of the ones responsible for hiring other idiots down at the Yard.”

“She’s got a point,” Joan said as she ignored the irritated glare Sherlock shot her way. “You do need more sun protection.”

“I’m wearing gloves,” Sherlock retorted as a cab rolled to a stop. They piled in and gave the cabbie the address Sherlock had gotten from Lestrade.

“True,” Joan continued with their conversation, “but what about your face?”

“What about my face?” Sherlock asked absently as she looked out the window, apparently settling in to think over the finer points on the case.

“I know you have that whole ‘body is just transport’ thing, but I imagine it would be a bit harder to pull off that suave, mysterious Victorian air when you have radiation burns all along your cheekbones.”

Sherlock met Joan’s eyes and raised a brow, “You think I’m suave and mysterious?”

“I think you think you’re suave and mysterious,” Joan retorted. Sherlock scoffed as she turned back to her window and Joan nudged her with her elbow. “Seriously, Sherlock, would it really kill you to carry an umbrella or something?”

“Yes, it really would,” Sherlock’s voice was pointed. “At any rate, I would look ridiculous.”

“Whatever you say,” Joan relented. She knew when she was beat, or at least, when Sherlock would stubbornly refuse to admit Joan had a point. It was best to just leave it be. “Where are we going by the way?”

“We’re going to see Zofia Amon. She witnessed the murder when she was reading by the window. Apparently a lovely old woman. Makes excellent lemon squares.”

“You got all that and her address in just a few texts?”

“More or less,” Sherlock reached into her pocket and pulled out the black phone she’d used. Upon closer inspection, it had far fewer scratches than the phone Joan was used to fishing out of Sherlock’s pocket for her. When Sherlock clicked for the lock screen, a picture of Sally and presumably her friend Beth glowed on the display.

“You stole Sally’s phone,” Joan said, exasperated. “You stole her phone and used it in front of her.”

“The iPhone Age, Joan,” Sherlock grinned. “Really it’s her fault for not having a more distinctive case for it.”

“Yea, of course it’s her fault, why wouldn’t it be?” Joan muttered sarcastically. “Are you at least going to return it to her soon?”

“It’ll be on her desk when we stop by the Yard. After we talk to Zofia.”

“Right, good.” That was probably the best Joan could hope for. It wasn’t as though Sherlock had the best relationship with coppers anyway. Joan chuckled.

“What?” Sherlock glanced at Joan curiously.

“Just you,” Joan smiled at her friend, “back in the room. If you wanted to cop a feel all you had to do was ask.”

“Wha—“ Sherlock squawked. The look on her face was priceless until she recovered with a roll of her eyes, “Don’t be ridiculous, Joan. I’m sure no one thought I was trying to ‘cop a feel.’”

Joan bit back a grin and sighed pseudo-seriously, “All I’m saying is, people might start talking if we start feeling each other up in public like that. It was practically indecent.”

“I was merely trying to stop her from attacking you,” Sherlock grinned as if she scored a point in a game of wits. “You hardly need to be so dramatic.”

“So you admit it then?” Joan quirked an eyebrow. “That it was an attack?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock crossed her arms and flopped back against the seat, face turned toward the window. Joan laughed under her breath and leaned back in her seat. The day really was starting to take a good turn.

 

The interview with Kate, Sherlock felt, had not gone exactly as planned. Of course there had been a risk that she’d still be affected by whatever caused her to go feral, but Sherlock hadn’t anticipated her actually making a grab for Joan. The most she had been expecting was unease or discomfort, and that Kate was still capable of going on a rampage after she had regained her faculties was unnerving. Especially since Joan had been the sole focus of her bloodlust.

Sherlock closed the hand she’d touched Joan with into a loose fist. She could still feel the warmth of that tan skin on her fingers, burning her with the need to reach out and feel more.

But she kept her hand to herself. While she’d realized her feelings weeks ago, she wasn’t about to act on them. It would never work. Apart from Joan’s annoyingly insistent claims in her attractions, humans live such short lives and Sherlock never had the capacity to feel anything close to sentiment. It was better this way.

Sherlock looked across the cab to where Joan was looking out the window and let her gaze rove over her, taking in all she could. The way her short golden hair gently looped around her ears. The way her eyes sparked with the remnants of amusement. The way she leaned her sturdy yet gracefully curved frame so casually against the door.

There were other, finer details she picked up on of course. Sherlock picked up on everything. She noticed that Joan had switched to a new brand of shampoo and conditioner, there was a small glob of moisturizer caught in her hairline, and she was wearing the same plaid shirt she’d spilt coffee weeks ago under her grey jumper. All these small insignificant things that somehow seemed vital and beautiful because they belonged to Joan.

She could sit there and observe Joan forever, especially now. The almost attack back in the hospital room rattled her more than she let on. But as long as Joan was by her side, Sherlock would be okay.


	4. Interviewing A Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I have had many things going on and it's been hard to find time for most things. But, here's a chapter now

The rest of the cab ride was uneventful. Sherlock was silent for most of it, which Joan had been expecting. As much as she knew Sherlock enjoyed some light-hearted banter, sometimes it left her in a quiet mood. Not a tense quiet, like when someone crosses the line or says something hurtful, but just quiet. It was just one of the many things Joan had grown to accept about the woman.

They pulled to a stop and Sherlock all but leapt from the vehicle, leaving Joan to pay the cabbie as per usual. Joan sighed and pulled out a few notes. She didn’t mind though. She still had Sherlock’s wallet from her shopping trip.

Once she’d paid and left the cab, Joan hopped up the steps to Zofia’s flat to stand next Sherlock.

“You rang the bell?”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, “I wouldn’t just stand here if I hadn’t.”

“Right, yea,” Joan looked up at the door, “How old did you say she was?”

Before Sherlock could respond the lock clicked and a small old woman with a hunched back and dark gray hair opened the door far enough that the chain lock on her side was pulled taut.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Hello, Mrs Amon. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate Dr Joan Watson. We’re working with New Scotland Yard to investigate the brutal murder outside your flat last night.”

“Oh,” Zofia blinked owlishly, “Alright, then. Come on in.”

She closed the door and there was the sound of the lock sliding. She reopened the door and allowed them to cross the threshold.

The flat was rather nice. Very old fashioned, Joan thought, what with the decorative china plates along the walls and horribly outdated, dingy wallpaper, but that was to be expected from a woman about the age of eighty.

Zofia lead them to her sitting room filled with antique furniture obscured by doilies, gesturing for them to have a seat. Joan sat down on the plastic-covered floral sofa, which felt like it hadn’t been sat on in decades, and Sherlock took the spot next to her.

“It’s not often I get visitors,” Zofia slowly sat down on her dingy pink armchair, “Mostly we go Leslie’s. She has a bit more space than I do, I’m afraid. Not that you need much space for Mah-jong.”

“Mrs Amon,” Sherlock said with an obviously false smile, “As much as I’d love to hear about your game nights, I’d much rather hear about what happened yesterday.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Zofia nodded, “Nasty business, it was. As I told that Donovan girl and that bloke, Gregson, I was sitting by the window for a bit of light reading, when I noticed a couple of young ladies taking a stroll down my street. Lovely girls. Must have been sisters.”

Joan caught Sherlock’s eye a short moment before clearing her throat and nodding in a way that she hoped wasn’t as awkward as it felt.

“Well,” Zofia continued, “it wasn’t long before another woman attacked them. Nasty business, all told.”

“Could you describe this woman in a bit more detail?” Sherlock asked, leaning back and interlacing her fingers, as she was prone to do in thought.

“Oh, why, my memory hasn’t been the best, dears. All I recall is that she was pale and had this mane of short red hair. Oh, and she wore all these bangles and bulky jewellery. Bit worrisome, at first. Thought she might be in a gang.”

“No she wasn’t,” Sherlock interrupted.

“What?” Joan and Zofia said simultaneously.

“Right, sorry,” Sherlock clapped her hands, “continue.”

“Well,” Zofia began a little more uncertainly, “I watched them curiously. Thought there might be some trouble when out of nowhere the strange woman sprayed herself with perfume before she pulled out a needle attacked the pretty little redhead.

“Then she, the pretty redhead, had some sort of fit. I was just dialling 9-9-9 when she lunged out and killed her poor companion. I hadn’t seen violence like that in a long time. Then she moved on to that poor boy as he was trying to help. She might have gone for me next if the Yard reinforcements hadn’t arrived.”

“And the strange woman with the jewellery?” Joan asked delicately, “What happened to her?”

“Well I hadn’t taken notice until she had been long gone. I assumed she went back down towards Elizabeth St.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs Amon,” Sherlock said as she stood up. “This has been an enlightening experience. Come along, Joan. We have a street to walk.”

“Wha—“ Joan squawked as Sherlock ghosted from the room. She turned back to a shocked looking Zofia and shrugged apologetically, “Er, sorry. Gotta dash.”

 

“Mind telling me what that was about?” Joan asked when she’d found Sherlock inspecting the ground with her gloved hands.

“What was what about?”

“You just picked up and walked out of there,” Joan said as she watched Sherlock stand and put her hands in her pockets. “I thought for sure you’d have more questions.”

“No need,” Sherlock grinned broadly at Joan. God, that was a beautiful smile.

“No need?” Joan crossed her arms. “All she managed to give us was a vague description of the attacker. We don’t know her age, her height, whether she’s human or—“

“She’s human.”

“What?”

“She’s human,” Sherlock repeated as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“How do you know?”

“Think, Joan!” Sherlock started off down the street while Joan uncrossed her arms and followed, “The victim pool is all vampires. If this were just about killing humans, a vampire could have gone on a rampage by themself and been smarter. Instead, they rely on injecting vampires with some drug to do their bidding. Then there’s the woman’s jewellery and the fact that she sprayed herself with a rowan derived solution.”

“What the perfume?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said as they turned a corner. “If it were a means to subdue the vampire, she would have sprayed Kate, but no, she sprayed herself with something that would make her an undesirable target for even the thirstiest vampire. Given Kate’s description of the scent, it’s highly likely that the substance was rowan.”

“And the jewellery,” Joan said thoughtfully, “The jewellery must have been silver, yea?”

“Yes! Excellent, Joan,” Sherlock said with a smile that betrayed just how proud she was that Joan had come to a conclusion on her own, “What better way to protect yourself from vampires? Your kind have been using that trick for centuries.”

“Right,” Joan nodded, “So we know that this woman is human. But how exactly are we going to find out who she is and how she developed this drug?”

“Unlikely she was the one to develop it,” Sherlock shook her head, “Anyone smart enough to create such a drug would know just how dangerous it was to engage any vampire under its influence. Even those protections would only work for so long if there were no other human targets. It’s not as though the drugged vampires have much of a sense for self preservation.”

“So she’s working for someone,” Joan said.

“Precisely.”

“So then, how are we going to find out who she’s working for? We haven’t got a clue who she is.”

“No,” Sherlock said as she withdrew her hand from her pocket to reveal a crumpled receipt, “but this might help. Still smells faintly of rowan.”

“Huh,” Joan said as she took the receipt and turned it over in her hands, “So did you just pocket this until it was the right time or did you just see an opportunity to be dramatic?”

Sherlock smirked, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”


End file.
